


Fate's Humor

by TheDruidIsIn



Series: Slasher Soulmate AUs [1]
Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types, Horror Fandom, Slasher Fandom - Fandom
Genre: (At First Anyway), Biting, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Casual Murder, Come Marking, Creampie, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Hate Sex, Initial Dubious Consent (Both Parties), I’m sorry I just can’t make him nice or gentle, Large Cock, Marking, Michael Meyers Is His Own Warning, Michael is no Brahms or Jason, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Pheromones, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Michel Myers, Possessiveness, Rough Sex, Soulmate AU, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, not gonna lie this is kinda dark, their first moment together is literally a murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28896957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDruidIsIn/pseuds/TheDruidIsIn
Summary: Sometimes, Fate has a sense of humor. And, generally speaking, murder isn't the best way to say hello to your soulmate.A Greyscale to Color Vision Soulmate AU in which MC is Michael's Soulmate, and in which Soulmates are completely incapable of harming each other.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Original Female Character(s), Michael Myers/Reader, Michel Myers/Main Character
Series: Slasher Soulmate AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119287
Comments: 3
Kudos: 48





	Fate's Humor

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much what's on the tin. Please read the tags and warnings carefully before reading. I don't write non-con but I do realize that rough sex/hate sex could be just as triggering for some. I don't usually write for Michael, but I think I kept him pretty in character. After all, he isn't the lovey-dovey, soft type or even the bratty type (like Jason, Brahms, or even Vincent and Bubba).
> 
> Lyrics from Hozier's song From Eden.

..

Fate’s Humor

…

_Babe_

_There's something tragic about you_

_Something so magic about you_

_Don't you agree?_

...

A new twinge hit with every step, and I throbbed with a dull ache.

“Stupid soulmate with his stupid fucking horse cock,” I muttered darkly as I leaned into the fridge and grabbed the carton of juice, pouring a liberal amount into my glass before returning it to its home on the shelf. I straightened up and shut the door, not expecting at that moment to come face to face with Michael Myers—who had the bloody mask on again. I yelped, startled, and dropped my glass, which shattered on impact with the floor. The juice and shards of glass went everywhere. I glared at him as I knelt to try to pick up some of the pieces.

“Don’t startle me like th— _ow, son of a bitch!”_

I immediately dropped the pieces I’d retrieved, now covered in my blood after slicing my palm open. I cradled it to my chest, swearing. A few seconds later after a bit of shuffling and a cabinet opening and closing, someone tugged it free and pressed it into something a bit rough that made it sting. I hissed with the slight pain, looking to see that Michael knelt next to me, holding a large piece of gauze soaked in something clear—rubbing alcohol, I’d assume by the faint whiff I caught of it—to my wound. “Thank you,” I muttered quietly, allowing him to continue cleaning it despite the smarting and burning that came with it. A little discomfort now rather than a lot later should my hand get infected. Glancing around I noticed the first aid kit laying open on the counter nearby. He must have taken it from the cabinet. Next to it sat an open bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“You should be more careful,” he chided, startling me again and drawing my attention back to him. He rarely spoke, and when he did he tended to do so quietly.

“I know.”

He looked at me then through the eyes of his mask, Michael and Enda’s influence and something in between, layer upon layer upon layer, warped into one being with no indication of where Michael ended and Enda’s twisted impact began. The madness and bloodthirstiness within Michael hummed just underneath his skin like a thunderstorm as it moved across the countryside. His grip on my hand tightened for a moment. “I do not want my mate to be harmed.”

_Mate_. That one word sent me reeling in my memories. Finding out that we were fated to be together, that we were _soulmates,_ still baffled me to the present day. The fact that I was the only person who would be safe from his violence, who wouldn’t find themself a victim of the curse or his bloodlust, had been mind-boggling, to say the least.

There wasn’t anything overtly special about me besides the circumstances of my birth. I had always been told about how I was a miracle child, a gift from the Old Gods to aging parents who still followed the Old Ways in secret. There was absolutely nothing I’d done out of my own merit to avoid his murderousness, and yet when he came after his cousin Elizabeth Montgomery, I kept him at bay. When he tried to stab her, I shielded her with my own body, not expecting the moment that the hand holding the knife skittered away from me as if encountering a force-field.

We all froze in shock.

I stared up at him as his head tilted, his once-blank eyes filled with frustration and confusion as he tried again and again to rain blows down on me. Each one failed, glancing off of me at the last second, his wrist wrenched aside. It took me ages to realize that I could see in full color rather than grayscale, and then I knew. I was mates to him, to Michael bloody Meyers, to a _killer_. Someone who thirsted after blood as some might thirst after sweets.

“Wait,” I had said, rising to my full height in front of him as Elizabeth continued to crouch behind me, cowering in fear. He tried to strike me again, but his usually powerful body yielded to my touch. He stood unable to resist as I forced his wrist down to his side. “Don’t you see,” I hissed, my own exasperation mounting. “You can’t hurt me. We’re soulmates.”

He paused, then, tilting his head to the other side. “One half of a mated pair cannot harm another,” I reminded him. “You’re physically incapable of killing me, Michael, and I won’t let you kill her.”

He tried to shove me out of the way, but as if pushing through molasses his momentum slowed and he could only shove feebly at me. An enraged growl fell from his lips. “Leave with me, Michael. Forget her.”

Elizabeth looked up then, clutching at my legs. She wrapped her arms around me and buried her face into the backs of my knees. “No, please, don’t go with him.” She sounded nearly hysterical, already sobbing.

At the sound of her voice Michael tried lunging around me to get to her anyway, but I pressed fully into him, deciding to use my full arsenal now that I knew us to be mates—my voice, my touch, my scent—against him. “Michael,” I whispered, dropping my voice into something breathy, hating myself for the jolt of arousal I felt in return as I tried my hand at seducing him. He might be my mate, but he was currently trying to kill my best friend. He stiffened, twitching, no doubt picking up on my changing pheromones. I knew that as his mate I was physically intoxicating to him, and he to me. I marveled at the irony, the perfect symmetry of the universe. A cursed man being mated to a miracle made flesh, of a literal godsend.

“Michael, please, for me.” I cupped his cock through his coveralls, feeling no small sense of relief that his body, if nothing else, seemed to respond to me, his cock twitching from the contact and straining toward my hand. He tilted his head down to look at me. He had glittering beetle-black eyes. He continued to close the distance between us until the lips of his mask pressed into mine, his arms encircling me and his hips lightly thrusting his cock into my hand. I could feel the cold of the knife through my jumper.

Behind me, Elizabeth continued to cry pitifully. That is, until Michael shifted ever so slightly and her cries turned into a blood curdling scream that cut off abruptly as it faded into wet choking gasps, and I realized belatedly that he’d used my attempt to seduce him to kill Elizabeth anyway. I turned my head to see that he’d lifted her by her hair from where she knelt and plunged his knife into her neck. He pulled it free with a wet sucking sound, her blood running down the length of the blade and dripping onto the floor and Elizabeth’s body as she slumped over, bleeding out almost instantly. I tried to move but he held me fast in his grasp, his attention now focused entirely on me. He raised the knife to stab at me again, and when it failed once more, he shoved me toward the floor.

This time his hand made contact with my body and the force sent me onto my ass. I landed in Elizabeth’s pooling blood, confused and wondering if perhaps I’d been mistaken, when he knelt next to me and carefully laid the knife within reach, hands then going to unbutton his coveralls. It was then that I felt the lust, the _need_ , radiating off of him in waves, and realized he could touch me because his intent was no longer to do harm to me. He pushed his clothes down around his waist, freeing his cock, then reached forward and took the fabric of my dress in his hands, ripping it open from collar to hem and exposing my underclothes. My bra snapped when he tugged on it, releasing my breasts. The ruined garments slid down my arms. A good part of me hated him for killing Lizzy, but even so I felt myself growing wet, nipples hardening under his gaze and the cloying cloud of his own pheromones. He nudged me onto my back and pulled me closer by my ankles, tearing my underwear off with a tug of his wrist. He crawled over me, and without conscious thought I spread my legs to accommodate the presence of his body. A part of me wanted him, badly, despite the bubbling resentment from his casual murder of my friend. My only comfort was that he wanted me just as badly despite the fact that his instinct had obviously been to eliminate any obstacle in his path to killing Elizabeth.

I was a virgin, then. I hadn’t even been brave enough to slip a few fingers inside of myself yet at that point, not that there was anything that would have prepared me for his monstrosity of a cock. His fingers wound into my hair and tugged my head back—far less harshly than I imagined him capable of doing, yet done nowhere near as gently as I would prefer—to bare my throat. I calmly matched his frigid gaze, knowing I would be safe—in a sense, at least—from his wrath. He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ hurt me, even if he’d wanted to.

He pushed the edge of his mask up far enough to bite into the tender flesh, taking me at the precise moment that his teeth pierced my skin. I screamed at the intrusion, pinned beneath him as he immediately set a punishing pace, not attempting in the slightest to prepare me before fucking me. His hips snapped forward, burying him to the hilt. I whimpered, feeling an unpleasant scraping sensation along with a sense of rawness. While not dry I hadn’t been nearly wet enough, and I’d never taken anything before, let alone something so large that filled me completely. I lay beneath him with tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, trying not to cry or look at Elizabeth’s corpse. Mostly, I was upset that he’d killed Elizabeth, as all the foreplay in the world wouldn’t have made it any easier to know that my own soulmate had slaughtered my best friend like lamb for a feast.

Emotional pain was, apparently, _not_ off the table.

“You fucking bastard,” I whispered, feeling resentment over the murder but _needing_ him, needing his touch, his presence, as much as he apparently needed me.

In response he yanked my head back—less harshly than before, oddly enough—to bite a second time and thrust harder. Despite my tumultuous emotions I did feel pleasure from it. The longer he fucked me the wetter I became until he slid into me easily, his pubic bone flush to mine and his tip just shy of my cervix. When one of his hands groped blindly at my breast, pinching my nipple awkwardly, I came with a gasp, clenching around his cock. My muscles loosened and I began to enjoy it more. His pheromones permeated the air, the aroma of his arousal blanketing us thickly and letting me know how much _he_ was enjoying it as well. It would have been difficult to tell otherwise with him wearing a literal mask, his grunts and soft moans the only auditory evidence.

Even as I thought that, he surprised me again by speaking, a quiet, deep, sure voice. “If I can’t kill you, I’ll keep you. You’ll be mine and mine alone.”

His thrusts were still powerful but more erratic and less demanding. “Don’t come inside,” I requested. “I’m not on anything yet. Please, Michael.”

He drug his teeth against the side of my neck. “I can and I will and you’ll take all of it.” Before I could tell him _exactly_ where he could shove that opinion, he bit my shoulder and came with a harsh gasp, flooding me with cum. As soon as he finished spilling into me he pulled out and stood, studying his handiwork as he redressed. The bite marks throbbed slightly, each having broken the skin, and I could feel his cum leaking out of me and some of Elizabeth’s blood underneath me and in my hair. It had seeped under us while he pounded into me. I looked down and saw a splash of pink amongst his seed on my thighs— _my_ blood, I realized distantly. Not everyone bled during their first time, but apparently I had.

“Get dressed,” he said gruffly, moving his mask back into place and picking up the knife again—but only after catching sight of the blood diluted by seed. I stood slowly, wincing at the rawness I already felt. I wandered over to Elizabeth’s closet to take one of her dresses, discarding the shreds of mine entirely. I tried not to limp as I walked to Michael’s side, tentatively taking his hand. He turned to me, his emotions hidden from me, but pushed his mask up to press a firm, but much softer, much more expressive kiss on my lips, one that would have still been fierce from someone else, but which came across as gentle, considering who delivered it. It tasted not like an apology, but something close, if unyielding, clearly coming from someone who never apologized but who wanted to acknowledge my feelings.

I allowed myself to be led out of my now dead friend’s house. I got Michael to lay across my back seat as I drove back to my house, mind racing. Michael was a killer, always had been, always would be, and yet—

_And yet_.

We were mates, neither of us could deny that no matter how much _he_ might wish we could. Michael was often moody and withdrawn, especially after the flood of emotions he experienced the longer we stayed together, no longer able to turn them off and forced to feel everything. He couldn’t leave me, not without a maddening ache and unbearable pressure in his chest. It became so that he craved me—not the softness or the emotions or the _pain_ that came with them, but me, my presence, my touch. Yet he also had to contend with the fact that I was the only person who could make him vulnerable, who he could see without the urge, the compulsion to kill. My presence didn’t dampen his overall compulsion to kill, but over time his urge to try and eliminate his new weakness, _me_ , faded until nothing remained. He accepted it, however grudgingly. He satisfied his discontent by refusing to reign in his feral nature—not that he knew how—and fucking me as hard as he could, biting me, scratching me, holding my hips so tightly that he left bruises in the shape of his thumbs. I can’t say I didn’t _like_ the biting or the hold on my hips, but aside from the fact that he didn’t possess a single objectively tender bone in his body, the man only came with two modes, only one of which was for me: bloodlust and horniness. Sure, he softened for me over time as much as it were possible for him, but he couldn’t fuck soft and slow to save his own damn life.

My thoughts drifted back to the present. Having spoken his piece, he released my hand and began cleaning up the shards himself. He threw them away and wet a dish towel to wipe up the mess. I stood there numbly, not wanting to get into his way. When he finished cleaning, he tossed the soggy towel into the sink, calmly washed his hands, then dug around on the first aid kit for bandages. He turned to me, took the now blood-soaked gauze, dressed my wound, and deftly wrapped it up tight. I watched him as he put everything away, my eyes tracing over the taught, angry lines of his body. He was displeased, that was for sure. He slammed the cabinet door far harder than needed to close it. When he came back to me again, obviously assessing me, he pulled me to him for a kiss, rolling his mask up past his lips to touch skin-to-skin. He still had no real idea on how to be gentle, his mouth demanding and almost bruising, biting at my lower lip and slipping his tongue into my mouth.

As soon as he broke away he picked me up bodily and carried me effortlessly to our room, where he threw me onto the bed. As I oriented myself, he undid the buttons holding his coveralls closed. When he didn’t wear them, he wore jeans and long-sleeved cotton shirts, one of which I currently wore. He removed everything save the mask, his monstrous cock fully erect. As sore as I was from the last time we were together, I felt myself getting wet at the thought of him being inside of me again. We no longer hated each other outright. We would both be loath to call it love, but we had our own brand of affection, of fondness, of something dark but romantic.

Before I could form more of a reaction, he pried my legs open to stare at my uncovered vulva, his cock hardening more and his tongue darting out to lick his lips. He detested it when I wore underwear while we were home alone together. He would often simply stare at my sex before he took me. “ _Mine_ ,” he growled, “ _My_ mate and mine alone. Mine to fuck, mine to fill. _Mine_.”

Given how often he liked to take me and that he detested the idea of condoms, I felt another surge of relief at having gotten a combination long-term contraceptive when I went into town. How he’d expected me not to conceive before was beyond me. The man loved coming inside of me, holding me as close as our bodies allowed, his breath, usually so controlled, panting with excitement. He loved seeing the mess he made afterward, his cum dripping free when he withdrew. I honestly didn’t mind it, so long as I had protection so that nothing came of his apparent obsession with making it _very_ obvious to anyone else who might see that he was the one fucking me and no one else should dream of trying. I still wasn’t sure why it mattered, as surely he’d kill off any competition anyway. It seemed that between his cum and his biting, Michael just liked leaving his mark.

He grabbed my legs and dragged me toward him, then used his unholy strength to flip me over onto my stomach, where I lay for a moment before shuffling onto my hands and knees. He unceremoniously shoved his fingers into me, slowing but not stopping when I winced slightly at the intrusion. His cock followed as soon as my walls squeezed tight with orgasm, dragging over every sore spot. His arm wrapped around my waist and he held me to him as he hammered into me, his fingers curled around my breasts as if he thought someone might steal them out from under us.

Michael might not ever be a gentle lover in any traditional sense of the word, but by god was he thorough.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I based the scene element of breaking a glass in the kitchen and the slasher helping MC with cleaning and first aid off of the first chapter of a Pennywise story that I’ve already written, but which has remained unpublished until I decide on how I’d like to continue in chapter two. I do plan to publish it at some point. I might post the first chapter as a one shot for now then come back to it when I've got the rest. We'll see. Either way, I plan to add more Slasher Soulmate AUs.


End file.
